Title: Paint Me a Cigarette

Author: Savoir Faire

Summary: A story of reminiscing, tea, the importance of miniscule details, and orange flavoured cigarettes

Warning: Randomness inspired by Peel (a brand of smokes), total disregard of the sixth book

Disclaimers: If I owned Harry Potter, people would kiss my feet, not JK Rowling's.

Dedicated to Prince Edwin and SilverWolf7007, for their peerless works of inspirational humour and writing prowess (Couldn't Catch A Cold and Harry's Insanity, respectively). A toast to you both, and to my good friend and fellow author, ferretfan4eva, who unfortunately, is somewhat perturbed by her classes into near lunacy. Fret not, dear friend. When the sixth month of the year comes, I shall have to undergo the same horrors as you. I hope this will alleviate your worries, and delay your madness until I am able to join you. With love, Savoir Faire.


"There's something incredibly wrong with this painting."

"Oh?"

"You said you would be in it."

"Hmm, I did, didn't I? Maybe I am. You of all people should know that some things aren't always what they seem."

"Hmph. You never cease to amaze me, Potter."

"Bullocks."

"Much as I loathe admitting it, but you do. In fact, you do more than anyone else."

"And let me guess, that bothers you, doesn't it?"

"Hmm, quite."

"Cigarette?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"I wouldn't be proffering a whole pack to you if I did."

"Hah. Hmm, orange flavoured."

"With a hint of mint, mind you."

"Ah, yes…"

"Yes, what…?"

"You really never cease to amaze me, Potter. Never."


An Opinion, Mr Jenkins? It's Off White!

- or -

Come To Think Of It, We Don't Mind If It's Still Covered

Draco Malfoy was never really one to dwell in the past. He certainly loathed thinking about his own. It pained him to look back, to reminisce, and even to just remember what colour of ink he used to write in brought back devastating memories. He had an imaginative mind, and when he had time for a break he would often busy himself with something other than sitting idly, for in the briefest of moments where his brain wasn't using its full thinking capacity, it would absently wander off somewhere, and usually, it was somewhere off in the past. He had learned to deal with this dilemma by filling his head with what he had to do for the day, or for the next hour, at least, and then run over his mental list over again before exercising his magical powers by wordlessly conjuring either a tall glass of juice or a cup of tea (during mornings and afternoons, respectively).

Today, however, was different.

He wasn't sitting in front of his enormous oak desk as he did Monday thru Thursday. And he certainly wasn't enjoying a quiet reread of his favourite book as he usually did during Fridays. And no, he wasn't in his home in Paris. Today was a Wednesday; he only went to France during lazy Saturdays, and it was back to dreary old England again by the afternoon of the next day for what he preferred to call as his 'gloomy Sundays'.

Today, he would be seeing again, for the first time in many years, a painting he had criticised well over ten years ago.

"Mr Malfoy, sir?"

"Well?"

"What do you think, sir?"

Draco huffed, annoyance already tugging at his patience. He looked at the man who stood a little behind him through the corner of his eyes, and promptly raised an eyebrow. "What do you expect me to say about something that's still covered in a white sheet? Or perhaps you need my opinion regarding this—" he slightly shivered in disgust, "off white piece of—" he sighed. The man, Joaquin, was already too shaken out of his wits to even understand a word he had said. "You may leave, Mr Jenkins. Thank you." He waved him off in a quieter tone.

"Ye…yes, sir. Good—good day, Mr Malfoy, sir."

Hearing the heavy doors close after the man, he let himself relax and promptly sat himself down on a nearby chair. He breathed evenly, forcing his nerves to calm down. Joaquin Jenkins was an idiot. He was honest, yes, very much so that it was what made him keep his job as curator, but he was a very forgetful man, more so when he was anxious or nervous about something. Draco could think of only two reasons as to why the thirty-four year old seemed off (more than he usually was): a.) he was in charge of safekeeping one of the Wizarding World's greatest artefacts, and b.) he was letting one of the most powerful men in the Wizarding World see the painting before the whole world did… and that, was supposedly not allowed. But of course, Draco Malfoy wasn't Draco Malfoy for nothing.

Suddenly the door opened, and heeled shoes gently clicked against the pristine marble floor.

"Granger, what are you doing here?" He closed his eyes. Who else but a member of the Gryffindor Trio would be present?

"I'm making use of your, hmm, advantages as a Malfoy to see the painting."

"That actually crossed my mind, but the idea of you, a Gryffindor, actually taking advantage of someone for your own intentions seemed most unlikely."

Hermione Granger laughed, and sat herself down on the chair opposite his. "Unlikely indeed, Malfoy, only if this was ten years ago."

Silence.

He wanted to say something, anything to break the awkwardness. But of course, for someone used to decking out insults to a Gryffindor, he only had scathing remarks to say. One look at her, however, and he could tell that she clearly wasn't in the mood for a fight, verbal or otherwise. He saw the anxiety in her posture, the pain and remorse in her eyes. She looked like she, if anything else, wanted to be somewhere else. Draco closed his eyes, leaning back and letting his head rest against the soft comfort of the chair. Being here was something unexpected of him—of them both.

Hermione Granger had been best friends with Harry Potter, no question about that. But she had also loved him as a brother, and, to the utmost horror of the entire Hogwarts' population, and naturally, the rest of the Wizarding World, nearly killed him in an accident in their last year. It was a laughing matter to most Slytherins, that little incident was. Who knew a cock-up in Potions could have finished off the Dark Lord's nemesis like no other curse could do? But… it was only something to snigger about back then, when they still had the attitude of the prepubescent. During the few moments when he actually allowed himself to look back at those times, he realised that if Harry Potter did die, he wouldn't have had the chance to know that the boy was, indeed, not so different from the rest of them after all. That and it clearly would have changed the way things were. Draco was unsure where or what he would be now; a Death Eater, most probably. But one thing was sure if Harry Potter had been buried six feet under the ground earlier than destined: Granger most certainly wouldn't be here either. She would have cursed herself to death, no doubt. Somehow (seeing that if he had indeed followed in his father's footsteps, he would have been killed too), he found a bit of comfort in the fact that he did have someone who shared his sentiments other than The Boy Who Lived himself. He opened his eyes when he felt a stare directed at him.

"Well?"

"Well, what, Malfoy?"

"Are we going to unveil it or not?"

She bit her lower lip, and for the first time in the seven years that Draco spent as her schoolmate, looked as if she was unsure of what to say. He understood her, really he did. Being here was something, but seeing the painting—Harry Potter's first work of coloured art (as he had a trunk full of sketches in charcoal), and, unfortunately his last—was an entirely different matter, and for different reasons for the both of them. It would pain her to see it because it had been finished the night before his near-death accident, and just mere days before the penultimate battle began…

And as for himself…

"No. Well at least, not yet. I'd rather sit here and think for a while."

He nodded, a bit relieved. Because for him, seeing it would bring back memories of the very same evening that he and Harry Potter finally did become friends. The very same evening that he would, for the first time, see Harry smile a real, perfect smile. Unbeknownst to the both of them at that time, it would be one of Harry's last…

Suddenly Draco felt the urge to pull out a cigarette. But seeing that the dead don't just come back to life to comfort the living (even if he was once the almost imperishable Boy Who Lived) by proffering a box, or at least two or three sticks of said cigarettes… He gave a sigh and conjured what he never thought he would conjure for a Gryffindor.

"Thank you, Malfoy."

He simply nodded and took a sip from his own cup of tea.

To be continued… quite obviously.


Author's note: I have yet to decide whether implied slash would be incorporated into this, so to HPDM slash fans, a thousand apologies.